


Some Rain Must Fall

by diemarysues



Series: Marriage in the Manner of Dwarves [10]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemarysues/pseuds/diemarysues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every marriage has its problems - every series has its angst.</p><p>Even this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Rain Must Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Something different to punctuate the fluff and smut.

Chief amongst the disadvantages of trees was that Thorin was not good at climbing them.

 

He’d never had the inclination or the time to learn. There was no real advantage in doing so – even if he was from a rather height-challenged race – and he believed that fighting should be done face-to-face, rather than by skulking in wait on a branch. (And if he was referring to certain cowardly weed-eaters that was his own business.) Perhaps it had been handy when escaping Wargs, but that had been about necessity more than anything else – not to mention the presence of very many conveniently placed branches.

 

He was gracious enough to admit that it would’ve been a useful skill when one had an angry Hobbit on one’s hands.

 

Sighing, Thorin placed a palm on the tree trunk. “Won’t you come down?”

 

The answer that drifted down was definitely cross. “No! Go away!”

 

That was rather unfair. He _had_ apologized.

 

“Yes, but only after Kíli explained why you should. It wasn’t sincere, and I’d rather you bugger off and leave me in peace!”

 

Despite the situation, Thorin found his lips twitching. “You’ve picked up some rather foul language, my husband.”

 

“I’ve been around too many Dwarves for too long, clearly.”

 

Now Thorin leaned his forehead against the bark, feeling the pang in his heart overshadow the slight roughness against his skin. He’d not thought that he’d erred this badly, especially considering that he’d only been acting with the best of intentions. If only Bilbo could see it from his perspective.

 

It was a point in his favour – though perhaps not in Bilbo’s view – that he’d realised that there’d been something wrong. He was no a stranger to that biting sarcasm and those stiffly set shoulders, after all, even if he hadn’t expected to face them for quite that many days.

 

The point against him was that, yes, an explanation from Kíli had been necessary. (Come to think of it, where had his younger nephew and heir learned to be so tactful? Even Dís had seemed surprised over her disgust about her brother’s failings. She’d gone so far as to suggest that Kíli had gotten it from his Elf friend, which was a distasteful concept. When Thorin voiced this opinion, she’d gotten annoyed at him and in keeping with her rude self called _him_ distasteful, _and_ an idiot, _and_ said that he was a truly useless husband to Bilbo.) The argument preceding this whole sorry situation had not been particularly spectacular for all that the outcome was so terrible. They’d shouted at each other before, when they hadn’t been husbands and after, but nothing – _nothing_ – had been worse than Bilbo’s quiet coldness.

 

Nearby, his and Bilbo’s ponies grazed nonchalantly. Thorin childishly begrudged them their idleness, and that they had no real worries except for running out of grass. He had to deal with an angry Hobbit in a tree. Bilbo was probably at the very top; there had been a reason why he’d been chosen to gauge their location while they’d been stuck in Mirkwood. But worst of all was that he wasn’t able to look Bilbo in the eye, wasn’t able to gauge just how angry he still was, wasn’t able to convince his husband that he _was_ sincerely sorry.

 

Well. There was only one way to go about fixing that.

 

Thorin set his jaw as he stepped back from the tree and gazed up at the top, and the scant sunlight that filtered past the leaves. He was taller than Bilbo. He’d be able to achieve this. Hopefully.

 

He left his boots and coat at the base of the tree. They would only encumber him while he carried out this already-difficult undertaking. He managed the short jump to grab the lowest branch and pulled himself up onto it, keeping close to the trunk since branches were strongest there.

 

This would be made easier if he had a set of hammer- and ice-axes, as Dwarves used for scaling sheer walls within and without a mountain. Trees did not quite have the crags and cracks of good rock, but the picks would be able to pierce the bark and hold a Dwarf’s weight. An Elf would likely complain about this brusque treatment of ‘sacred life’, but who cared about their opinion? Not Thorin, and certainly not when he had better things to focus on.

 

His husband, for example.

 

“Bilbo?”

 

No reply.

 

Thorin sighed. Holding on tightly – that is to say, securely – to the tree, he carefully looked down and then back up at the hints of sunlight shining through dense foliage. He might be a third of the way up – or a quarter of the way? It was difficult to judge, especially if he could not guess at Bilbo’s position.

 

Continuing upwards was already getting (more) difficult. The climbing was not laborious for anyone trained in combat but constantly stretching and precariously balancing on steadily-thinning branches were wearing on Thorin’s nerves.

 

When he stood on a branch and it creaked worryingly, Thorin froze. He needed to proceed carefully – but should he proceed upwards to potential danger or admit defeat and return to blessedly steady earth?

 

“Bilbo!” he called again. “Do please answer me, dear one.”

 

“You’re disturbing everyone with your shouting. I’ll say it again: go away.”

 

“I will not run away from this.” With this position, he wasn’t able to run anywhere – to be honest, he didn’t want to move at all. “And I’m not shouting.”

 

“Then why does your voice sound louder?” Bilbo asked with suspicion heavy in his voice. Then, “Are you _climbing_ up?”

 

“I don’t know why you sound so surprised. I will go to you, if you will not come to me.”

 

Bilbo’s sigh must have been heavy indeed if Thorin could hear it so clearly. “Stay where you are, Thorin. I’m coming down.”

 

He ignored his Hobbit’s warning and the warning groan of the branch he was now hanging from. “No, I will meet you up there.” He was the one in the wrong and so he should make the sacrifices so he could start making up for his mistake. Thorin gritted his teeth and braced his feet against the tree as he pulled himself up. “We should have this conversation on your terms.”

 

“Well, my terms include you being alive and unharmed.” Bilbo sounded closer.

 

Knowing how quickly Hobbits could climb up and down trees, Thorin got to his feet. They were getting sore, lacking the thick skin that Hobbits had, but he had to keep going. A little soreness would not kill him. “It’s fine, Bilbo. It’s fine.” He bent his knees, then jumped at the next branch. This was difficult – but he was still in the tree. He was still climbing.

 

“It is not fine –” he broke off with a curse and Thorin’s heart skipped.

 

“Are you alright?” Perhaps now Thorin was shouting. But who would blame him? He leapt for the next branch, ignoring the leaves that caught in his hair and the twigs that scratched his face. “You should stay put –”

 

First he saw a flutter of green, too bright to be any of the leaves, then came the yellow and blue of weskit and blouse. Then was Bilbo’s face as he hove into view. His brow was furrowed heavily in his worry and his mouth was open – to say or shout something. But Thorin never heard it.

 

What he did hear was the breaking of branches, a thud, a crack.

 

Then nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> *cackles*


End file.
